Page 42 of Single Girl in the City
there are 25 more letters in the alphabet
Monday morning Abi stood outside Stout feeling a mix of emotions. She had woken at five to make sure the kids could watch their morning shows and Hank could move about the house freely. That he did it in his boxers was his passive-aggressive way of voicing his opinion on Abi overstaying her welcome.
She did her best to ignore him or the way it made her feel and focus her energy on the day ahead. It was the official start of her time as Stout’s independent contractor tasked with hiring new staff and fixing Owen’s life. Not that his life was broken, but it definitely had fractures.
Wanting to make a good first impression, she dressed the part. In a pair of pressed black pants, a light-pink blouse, and her dressiest cowgirl boots, she looked like a proper training manager. She’d even done her hair and makeup, brushing on a little mascara and lip gloss, before begging Dotti for a ride. The last thing she wanted was to show up to work looking as if she’s just ridden in a BMX championship.
Even with all the preparation, Abi was almost late. Oh, Dotti had dropped her at the curb fifteen minutes ago, but Abi was still standing under the bar’s awning, contemplating turning tail. But Jenny had other plans, sending a pair of kamikaze hummingbirds Abi’s way. They buzzed her head twice, the third time going for the jugular.
They were setting up house in a light fixture near the back door and wouldn’t leave Abi alone, forcing her to go through the entrance and into the bar. Which was how she found herself at the doorway to Owen’s office.
He sat behind his desk, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. His lips were in a hard line and his attention was laser-focused on his laptop screen. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair stood on end as if he’d been worrying his hands through it, and the scruff on his jaw made Abi wonder if he’d slept at all last night.
Her heart went out to him. He might not want to admit it, but he needed her.
“I was wondering how long you were going to stand in the morning fog,” he said moments before their eyes locked and held.
“You were watching me?”
“It’s a growing problem.” He looked at her as if the whole situation was her fault, which made her want to laugh. Maybe it had been a few weeks ago, but after that third kiss, he was as much to blame as she. She considered explaining how this whole two-sided attraction thing worked, but instead she studied him, surprised to realize that she threw him completely off-kilter.
Not sure what to do with that information, she pulled a bag out of her backpack. “I brought freshly made apple spice muffins.” She set the bag on his desk. He opened it, peeked inside, and then the most amazing thing happened.
He grinned. A boyish grin that completely transformed his face. “Portland by way of Abilene?”
“Stout by way of Sip Me,” she admitted, and he laughed. A real one. “But they are the best in the city, I promise.”
He popped a chunk into his mouth and groaned in ecstasy. She wondered if that’s what he sounded like in bed. As if sensing where her mind was headed, he held out his next bite. “Want a piece?”
Yes. Yes, she did and, damn the man, he knew it. “I already ate,” she said primly.
“You’re here early. I wasn’t expecting you until later.”
Which explained the state of the office.
“Interviews start tomorrow so I need to begin calling and scheduling people. Plus, I wanted to get a picture of what I was looking at.”
She looked around the room. Besides the desk, which had more piles than surface space, there were two chairs, a masculine leather couch, which was outdated but cared for, and a massive cabinet housing a vintage beer stein collection. The walls were lined with autographed photos of famous people smiling with an older man. In fact, other than his desk and three tea mugs, which were scattered around in different states of emptiness, the office was actually fairly clean and tidy.
She walked over to get a closer look at the photos. There was everyone from Johnny Cash to Adam Levine to the Jonas Brothers, and in each one was a man of various ages, with a warm and welcoming smile. Owen’s smile.
“Is that your dad?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He stood and walked up behind her. “He had this open way about him that made people feel special. He knew every regular by name, knew about their family, their struggles. I’m surprised he managed to keep the bar running with his on-the-house habit. Everyone loved Benji Easton.”
“I’d heard that famous people played here, but I had no idea.”
“My dad was intimidatingly large and could command the room. But he had this generous spirit about him, this amazing capacity for kindness that drew people to him.”
Like father like son, she thought.
“He could sweet-talk just about anyone to play a set, then pair nobodies with somebodies in hopes of giving up-and-comers their first big chance. It was the same with other people in his life, always handing out second and third opportunities to get it right. He never gave up on others. Ever. ‘Everyone makes mistakes, son. But not everyone gets a second chance,’ he used to say.”
“Do you believe that?”
He let out a rough breath before answering. “I hope so. I mean, one time he caught one of his oldest employees selling stolen booze out of the back of the bar, and you know what he said? That the guy needed the money more than we did.”
“Did he fire him?”
